49th of Season of Air, 59th year of the 32nd cycle

  One against two, Newt had no intention of being a gentleman. He fireburst towards the closer swordsman, Magmin Scales and Granite Crust enveloping his body. The grand sect’s core disciples scattered, their moment of confusion lasting less than a blink before their training kicked in.

  Newt’s target, a red-haired, stocky youth, assumed a firm defensive stance, and slashed his sword to swat away the incoming glaive. His arm shook like he had struck stone, and in his shock, the glaive pierced his chest. The young man’s eyes went wide with shock as he disappeared in one last burst of retaliatory flames.

  One against one, Newt ignored his opponents fiery techniques, the evolved Magmin Scales searing them as they struck. The fire-attributed cultivator was quick, his attacks decisive, but he was nowhere near Sal, the Sword Abode’s disciple. Swift, experienced, and nimble opponents were Newt’s bane. Too quick to corner, yet able to deliver lethal blows.

  The Fiery Glory’s disciples did not belong in that category. They had traded speed and agility for their element’s offensive power and wider area attacks, both of which faltered before Newt’s defenses.

  He broke the other man’s defense in five moves and speared his chest with the final jab. Newt’s opponent vanished, and Newt collected the flags, his total reaching a hundred and fourteen.

  Looking at the number of points and his rooted flags, he was faced with a choice. Bow out or keep going? Their team average was at least twenty-three flags per person, probably enough for top ten. Possibly top five. That was an amazing result, one which would yield his sect a bunch of points.

  But he had well over half his spiritual energy remaining. And with enough stamina for at least another fight, it felt a shame to just give up. But if grand sects’ disciples have grouped up, he would lose against two or three Sword Abode’s disciples. They would exhaust his spiritual energy, and then it was only a matter of time before their techniques pierced his skin, initial fifth realm or not. He would also lose against Diamond Talisman, if their disciples had set up a good enough trap to deceive his third eye.

  Newt raised his hands to surrender, and nothing happened. He swept the surrounding forest with his gaze, but spotted no one.

  We can’t quit if there’s someone within a hundred yards of us, but they don’t need to be aware of our position. Newt smirked. For all I know, it’s another poor soul with a rooted flag trying to get out.

  Newt stepped away from his flags and skulked through the nearby greenery, searching for his opponent. Finally, after walking a nearly full circle, he spotted the flags. Sixteen points total, their owner nowhere in sight.

  Are sixteen points worth the risk? Newt wondered, but the only response he had was that someone formidable would have had more points. Then he noticed that the main flag’s colors matched the two other disciples he fought and concluded they moved around as a team of three.

  Newt closed his eyes and once more focused on what his third eye could tell him. He searched for strange swirls of spiritual energy or unnatural flows, but found none. Suddenly, his back flared with phantom pain and he threw himself to the side.

  A sword pierced right above his head, then swept down, flaring with fire-attributed spiritual energy. Defenses covered Newt’s skin, and he grabbed his attacker’s wrist and twisted. A young woman screamed, and if not for the Blood Cult’s attack, Newt would have let go, but in that battle, he lost all compassion for the fairer sex.

  A bolt of fire smashed into his face, dealing no damage. Newt pulled out his short-sword and plunged it in the woman’s chest. Flames struck him one final time before disappearing along with the female cultivator.

  Newt stood, dusted his robe, and went to collect the flags. His total rose to one hundred and thirty, and he once more considered whether he should surrender. Just a scant few minutes ago he had reached a decision, and yet with a handful more points, greed tugged Newt at pushing his luck further.

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  One hundred and fifty. That’s thirty flags per person, Even the weakest of the grand sects would need at least three hundred and thirty to match that result, while the first place would need six hundred. Two hundred would all but guarantee us a first place.

  Newt could feel the points calling to him, but a tiny voice in the back of his head told him he might lose it all if he pushed his luck too far. He once more considered what he knew of the rules. Twenty-five hundred first realm disciples, fifteen hundred dinosaurs, for a total of four thousand points.

  Dinosaurs could gather points, but not surrender, and when the final human raised their hands, the trial would end. What if he was already alone with the dinosaurs? It was unlikely, the second hour had only started fifteen minutes ago.

  But what if I fall into Diamond Talisman’s trap? Newt thought while returning to his flag.

  A jolt of phantom pain flashed in his temple as he reached the flag, and Newt ducked. A matte black bolt infused with spiritual energy whistled above his head and slammed into a tree, exploding its trunk into pieces. The tree groaned and fell as Newt readied his glaive, scanning the forest for threats, but found no one.

  Shadow Valley, he knew immediately. The contender sect focused around stealth and assassination struck from the shadows, used matte weapons, and its disciples would never reveal themselves unless they critically wounded their victims. The odds of an assassin confronting Newt were less than zero.

  Newt closed his eyes, focusing on his third eye and sense of danger, but neither picked up anything. Unless they attacked, the assassin was harmless, and they had either left, or knew how to conceal their presence, quite possibly both.

  No, he didn’t leave. If I were in his shoes, I wouldn’t abandon a massive windfall of points without giving it a couple of tries.

  Newt raised his hands again, more to test his theory than because he wanted to quit the competition, and as he had figured, he was stranded.

  Well, at least I don’t have to contemplate leaving anytime soon.

  With no better ideas, Newt searched the forest for any hint of the flag the assassin was carrying, but they almost certainly hid it someplace safe. Newt smirked. It would be funny if someone scooped up the flags once they became mobile and removed the assassin that way.

  What would happen if someone killed them and their flags remain hidden? Do they become wasted, or would the realm handle it? The problem seemed too obvious for the venerable not to have thought of it, but Newt dared not make any guesses. Who knew what went on in the high realm cultivators’ heads.

  Even with his attention visibly slipping, the assassin made no moves. Newt guessed they would wait until he was locked in combat with someone else, too distracted to consider sneak-attacks.

  With nothing better to do, Newt remained close to his flag, waiting for his forced inactivity to end.

  I can lose the assassin once they are rooted—Newt realized how silly the thought was a moment later. The assassin had stashed away their flag somewhere.

  Half an hour passed, the assassin proving themselves patient, and Newt sprinted through the jungle, then stopped abruptly twenty paces later. He spun around, but noticed no sign of pursuit.

  Resigned to his fate, Newt moved in a random direction. Ten minutes later, a man wearing a green robe and wielding a pair of short-swords lunged at him from the bushes.

  Newt blocked the attack, and instead of following with a deadly riposte, he feigned weakness, letting the green-robed man press his assault. A sudden burst of phantom pain in Newt’s back announced the assassin, and Newt threw himself to the ground. A matte black bolt whistled and slammed into the green-robed man’s shoulder.

  Newt finished off his surprised opponent and rushed into the bushes from which he had ambushed him. He scooped up another thirteen points.

  One hundred and sixty-three. Newt raised his hands, but nothing happened. He was still in the trial.

  “Fine, have it your way.” Newt muttered, his voice loud enough for the assassin to hear him. “But once someone finds your flags you are out, and good luck finding them yourself, because I will drag you far away from wherever you left them.”

  No answer.

  Newt regretted, not for the first time, that he had not developed his spiritual perception to the point of being useful. He did not have the time to experiment with his refined spiritual energy, but even if he did, at most it would extend some ten to twenty feet.

  It would probably waste a lot of spiritual energy, too.

  Part resigned, part happy, Newt continued into the jungle. He would keep playing the game until the assassin gave up.